


A Stitch In Time

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [78]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Fluff, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-20
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Slayer, a vampire, a full moon, another Slayer, another vampire...say, things are getting crowded around here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch In Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. And some later ones. Time travel and all.

A trail of white breath-puffs hung in the crisp January air behind her as Buffy Summers trudged down the gravel path leading through Restfield Cemetery. She rubbed her mittened hands together and shot an unappreciative glance up at the cold hard twinkle of the stars overhead. Honestly, no one should be forced to patrol in such extreme weather. There was probably going to be frost on the grass tomorrow morning.

If Riley were with her it might be fun. There could be vital on-the-job snuggling. He'd be a giant guy-shaped wall o' warm, big hands and broad shoulders and boyish grin and living human man-smell. But he'd begged off with some super-secret no-girls-allowed Initiative thing, and here she was with her nose getting all red and chapped in isolation and a glorious romantic moon totally going to waste. She needed Riley-snuggles. All absolutely necessary to guard against the memory of shoulders just as broad and hands just as big, but far colder.

After all, it wasn't like her one night with Parker Abrams had provided her with much in the way of daydreaming material, and as for what she and Spike had ended up doing under the influence of Willow's disastrous will-be-done spell...ugh. She'd used up a whole bottle of Listerine after. At least it hadn't gone any farther than kissing. And hugging. And...rubbing. And...if Riley didn't make a move soon she was going to spontaneously combust. If she were a suspicious kind of person, she   
might think that Maggie Walsh was trying to keep Riley Finn away from her as much as possible. If she were a suspicious person. And if Professor Walsh were, like, the Wicked Witch of the West. Come to think of it, there was a definite resemblance. She'd have to stay on the lookout for flying monkeys.

The bushes rustled behind her and Buffy spun round, stake at the ready. A beat, and she lowered her weapon and relaxed as she caught the distinctive smell of cheap tobacco. "Spike," she spat, as the vampire materialized from the shadows, his platinum hair gleaming in the moonlight. She noticed with a certain satisfaction that he was starting to look a little thin and shabby around the edges, now that he was out scrounging around on his own again. That chip in his head was the best thing that had ever happened to her. "What are you doing here?"

"Vampire, cemetery, would think the connection was obvious," Spike sneered. He drew on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the bushes, looking a trifle disappointed when nothing caught fire. "But then I remember who I'm talking to. Happens I'm in the market for a new residence, and rat-infested mausoleums are posher accommodations than the Harris basement." He took a step closer, and tucked a thumb into his belt with a smirk. "Don't tell me: you're here to beg my help again. Well, you can sod off, because if you think I'm stirring hand or foot to help you mangy lot..."

He wasn't serious, was he? He was. He actually thought - "Spike. Whoa. Engage your few working brain cells. The last time you 'helped' you practically destroyed the world throwing that Varhall into the Hellmouth!" Hair-toss, stake-twirl. "Me Slayer. You pathetic, de-fanged loser of a vampire. Why would I ever ask you for help? With anything?"

Ziiing! And the Slayer hits one home! She could tell from the way his jaw twitched and his lips tightened...no, don't think about Spike lips. In fact, the whole (soft, sensual, stop it right now) mouth area of Spike was off-limits for thinkage. He looked her up and down - nostrils flaring, off-limits lip curling - and took one more hungry, predatory step, closing the distance between them. "Your precious Watcher wasn't too picky about asking for my help last week, was he now?"

"You wrecked his car!"

"You ever seen his car? Wrecking it was a favor!"

"The point is, even when you were helping, you were completely incompetent!" They were eye-to-eye now, or at least eye-to-nose, hurrah for three-inch heels. That's right, Spike was short. Or shortish. Not Oz short or Jonathan short. But definitely not tall. And wiry. No, not wiry. Weedy. Short and weedy trumped do-not-think-about-it lips any day. "You know what? If we find out what's behind all this demon activity? Go help them. You'll be doing me a favor!"

"Yeh?" Spike snarled. His hands were balled into fists and his shoulders (which weren't nearly as broad as Angel's or Riley's, but to be fair, were perfectly in proportion to the rest of him, but who wanted to be fair?) were shaking, as if he were trying to stop himself from reaching out and...hitting her, of course. "I just may do. Yours truly can mix it up with demons now, don't you forget. Won't be long till I'm a force to be reckoned with again, and when this chip comes out - "

God, she hated him so much! They were both breathing hard, almost panting, so close together that her...parts were in danger of brushing against...other parts with every breath. Buffy took a step back and delicately stifled a yawn. "I'm sorry. What were you saying? I drifted off for a minute."

"The streets," Spike said, stabbing a forefinger at her chest, "will run red with blood, most of it yours. Mark my words." Buffy stared coldly at the finger until he removed it and backed off a step of his own. "What's the matter, Slayer? You smell...frustrated. World's Oldest Cub Scout prefer polishing his merit badges in solitude to a night with you?" He leered, off-limits tongue curling behind off-limits teeth. "Not that I can blame him. You've gotten downright scrawny of late, Slayer; not much left for a bloke to cuddle up to."

Just as she was about to snap back a brilliant retort involving Drusilla and a perverted taste for anorexic psychopaths, the world heaved and rippled, a painted stage backdrop in a high wind. A black-robed demon with a deeply creased face popped out of nowhere. It gave vent to an ululating cry of alarm as it saw the two of them and popped into non-existence again. Three identical cousins popped in after it, wailed identical alarms, and popped out again as the world wavered and shimmied. Buffy clutched her suddenly rebellious stomach and stumbled into Spike, who was finding it not so easy to be green himself. Spike grabbed her and overbalanced, and the two of them collapsed in an ungraceful heap to the path.

It took a minute for the universe to stop spinning. Which was why she didn't get up immediately. Not because lying on Spike was in any way comfortable. And the dizziness doubtless explained why he was gazing into her eyes with a look that was not completely filled with murderous loathing and was he stroking her hair?! Industrial strength ew! Buffy scrambled to her feet, kneeing Spike in as many tender places as possible in the process, and hopped away, brushing the vampire cooties off her jacket.

"Ow!" Spike bellowed, cupping the aforementioned tender places and glaring at her. "What the sodding hell - "

And stopped, just like that, his eyes narrowing, his attention on the shadowy bulk of a nearby crypt. He rolled over and rose to his feet, utterly silent, utterly focused on the darkness, and for a second, Buffy remembered that it wasn't so long ago that Spike had been someone... something... dangerous.

"What is it?" she whispered, taking a fresh grip on her stake.

"Dunno." Spike tipped his head back and inhaled. "Smells like..." He shook his head, frowning. "Can't be," he muttered.

"Can't be what?"

"Whatever it is, it's not human." Spike broke into a grin. "And that means I can kill it." He whirled around, leather coat-tails flying, and disappeared into the night.

The chip in Spike's head meant he couldn't attack humans any longer, but that didn't mean he couldn't still cause trouble. Sunnydale After Dark was in the middle of a major supernatural wiggins lately; the Initiative had the demons all stirred up. In the long term that might prove to be a good, but in the short term it was a bunch of stirred-up demons. Suppose those black robe-y guys were doing another end-the-world ritual? (And what was with that, anyway? Even for demons, the world was where you kept your stuff!) Buffy hesitated only a moment, and took off after Spike.

As she raced down the grassy slope towards the crypt, Spike's hand shot out of the bushes and grabbed her wrist, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "Don't get down-wind, you stupid bint!" he hissed. "They'll smell you!"

Buffy considered yanking free and busting in - after all, it wasn't like Spike was doing this out of a tender concern for her safety - but maybe it was better not to charge in without knowing what was in there. She allowed the vampire to drag her down behind the screen of Cape myrtle leaves, wincing at the thought of what the muddy ground was doing to the knees of her leggings. From their vantage point in the shrubbery, they had a clear view in through the barred windows of the crypt.

There were people inside. Perfectly human-looking people, so far as she could tell in the dark, which was most likely why Spike had stopped - he probably didn't want to take the chance that the chip defined 'human' differently than his nose did. Of course, even perfectly human people in a crypt at midnight were unlikely to be harmless members of the Sunnydale Historical Society. A tiny yellow flame illumined the crypt's interior - someone was holding up a lighter. Maybe they were vagrant Deadheads. A second later, the flame twinned. The lighter flicked out as candlelight blossomed and spread.

"That's my crypt!" Spike whispered furiously. "I've got dibs! I left my bag on the sarcophagus! If that pair of squatters think they can just - "

"Do whatever they like because you can't hurt a fly?" Buffy whispered back. "Shut up, Spike."

She couldn't see too much detail through the crypt's grimy windows, but the light of the candle revealed the intruders as a man and a woman. Neither of them looked terribly dangerous: the man was maybe five eight or so, fine-boned and wiry with a mussable head of short-cropped brown curls. He was wearing dark jeans and a well-worn motorcycle jacket. The woman was tiny and curvaceous - and OK, Buffy thought resentfully, stuffing her face hadn't been tops on her agenda lately what with that accusing little voice in her head whispering _Maybe he wouldn't have left if you were just a little slimmer, a little blonder, a little prettier_ but she was not scrawny. Not like Spike had objected a couple of weeks ago when - oh, that was definitely off-limits.

Focus, Buffy. Spike could probably hear everything they were saying in there, but she couldn't trust him to be an accurate translator. She strained her ears.

"...how long?" the woman said.

The man sat down on the sarcophagus and lit up a cigarette. "Dunno. No more 'n fifteen minutes, normally. You remember how it was with that Katrina bird. And then you snap back, like a rubber band. But," he waved around at the crypt. "This isn't normal. They must have set this up. Revenge for that lot we killed, maybe."

"Pretty pointless revenge." The woman's voice was weirdly familiar, but she couldn't place it. And the man's...Buffy glanced at Spike, whose jaw was clenched hard enough to crack molars.

"Yeh, well, never said they were very bright."

The woman was pacing now, arms folded across her chest. "OK, look, until we're sure we're stuck, we should stay right here. Just in case. Half an hour? And then if nothing happens - "

"We look up the Watcher," the man finished. "Or you look up the Watcher. Don't think he'll take very kindly to me at the moment."

A giggle. "Oh, God, if you're just moving in here, this would be about when you crashed that awful old Citroen, wouldn't it?" She sat down beside the man on the sarcophagus, bumping companionable shoulders. "It's so weird! We're out there somewhere." Her voice softened, broke. "Mom's out there somewhere."

The man chucked his cigarette and put an arm around her. "An' your sis doesn't exist yet. Good with the bad, Slayer."

The woman rested her head on his shoulder. "I know. Don't mess with the timeline or we'll end up in a universe without doughnuts. It's just... what do you think we're doing tonight?"

"Lurkin'," the man replied promptly. "Thinkin' evil thoughts. Lookin' for stuff to nick. Trying not to think about how your knickers smell when you're good and lathered up - "

The woman smacked him. "Spike!"

I did not just hear that, Buffy told herself. Her cheeks were burning. Beside her, Spike made a choked noise and stopped breathing altogether.

"You asked," the man said with a chuckle. "You?"

"Oh, patrolling. Daydreaming about Riiiiiiley - hey, you asked for it, buster!" She poked him in the side, prompting a ticklish flinch. "And maybe trying not to think about what a good kisser you were. Just a little bit."

Buffy hunched her shoulders, wishing she could sink into the earth. Beside her, Spike made another strangled noise, halfway between derisive laughter and appalled horror. She was going to get up right now and put a stop to this - this sick joke. Ethan Rayne. Had to be Ethan, miraculously escaped from Initiative custody, or, or demons or witches or something, because no way was that -

"And supposing we ran into each other?" the man who was absolutely not Spike was purring in that low growly seductive oh God it was Spike voice. Sliding one hand up the woman's thigh. Bending way too close to the woman's throat. "Evil, frustrated vampire, all those urges all pent up an' nowhere to go, nice tender Slayer all seething in her own juices... Chip might not stop a bloke in a case like that. Specially if the Slayer...likes it. Just a little bit."

That hand was going places Buffy definitely didn't want to think about. She squirmed, trying to ignore the warmth kindling in her own belly, and parts a little lower than that.

The woman's cheeks were rosy in the candlelight, her eyes sparkling with (if it were only lust, would that make it OK? Would it be somehow worse if it were another four-letter word beginning with L?) "Oh, but a Slayer always does her duty, right? Even if she does like it just a little bit." Her hand scrabbled through the debris on the sarcophagus, came up with a shard of wood, and popped the buttons on the man's shirt with the tip. One by one they parted, revealing a pale, muscular chest - looked like not-Spike worked out. The woman traced the lines of muscle with the stake-point, from belly to heart. "I'd just have to rrrrrip your shirt off and make sure the stake went right...here..."

The man growled, a real vampy growl, and through the blur of dust and shadow his face was distorted further in ridges and fangs. "Slayer's got her weapon to hand, eh? 'Spect I'd have to retaliate." Fang-points pricked the slope of her shoulder, nipped delicately at the curve of her throat. "In self-defense."

Buffy whimpered. In the crypt, the stake clattered to the floor as Not-Spike bore the woman down on the sarcophagus in a mutual flailing of hands and feet and recalcitrant fastenings. A low moan of anguish or - no, that was definitely lust - beside her snapped Buffy out of her trance. Spike's hand was at his fly, fondling himself through his jeans, his eyes half-glazed as he stared enraptured at the spectacle in the crypt.

"Oh, gross, gross, GROSS!" Buffy leaped out of the bushes, quivering with revulsion and...nope, just revulsion. "Spike, you disgusting, evil PIG!"

There was a shriek, a thump and a curse from the crypt as someone fell off the sarcophagus, and a second later the disheveled couple appeared in the doorway, frantically buttoning buttons, zipping zippers and stuffing shirt-tails back in. "There's this quaint custom called knocking - " The woman clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. Sans the interference of a grubby window, she looked like - like - Oh, God, like _her_, ten years and fifteen pounds older, and was that what they were wearing in 2010? Because if it was, maybe Slayers dying young was a good plan after all.

"Oh," Not-Buffy gasped. "Oh. It's me. I mean, you. I mean - you're so young! Ok, wait, this is not what it looks like. We are not from the future, so don't even ask. We're from, um, an alternate dimension. Like Vampire Willow was. The, um - " She cast a desperate look at Not-Spike. " - the World Without Bleach."

Not-Spike rolled his eyes and Not-Buffy gave him a well-you-think-of-something-better-then glare. "Uh, yeah," Not-Spike chimed in. "Got sent here by some Rwasundi demons. But we're figuring the effect should wear off - " He checked his wristwatch - Spike was wearing a wristwatch? "--any minute now, so you can just forget you ever saw us."

Not-Buffy nodded vigorously and made a shooing motion with both hands. "Exactly. We lack relevance. Move along, nothing to see here."

Spike's dark brows knit in a frown as he stared his doppelganger down. He had composed himself, more or less - obviously there would have to be off-limits signs posted around many, many more Spike parts for the foreseeable future. "Half a mo'. Rwasundi demons don't shift between dimensions, they - "

The world went wavery and whooshy. Buffy doubled over in queasy confusion, and when she straightened, the crypt was empty. She ran inside, but a thin stream of candle smoke twisting its way towards the ceiling and a few vague scuff-marks in the dust were the only evidence that anyone had ever been here. And there on the floor, one half-smoked Marlboro, still glowing fitfully.

"Bloody, sodding..."

Very deliberately, Buffy ground the cigarette out with the toe of one boot and turned. Spike was standing at the threshold, counting through a handful of crumpled bills. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Seeing if Rupert paid me sufficient to buy enough alcohol to permanently disable the brain cells involved in remembering the last half-hour," Spike replied shortly.

Buffy shuddered. The implications -

No, she wasn't going to think about the implications. There were no implications to think about. There was only a World Without Bleach - her own story, and she was sticking to it. "All things considered? My treat."

END


End file.
